face, he carried her floppy body to a black chaise on the other side of the room. The cool leather stuck to her wet skin. Taking a bottle of scented oil from the shelf above, he massaged her wrists and ankles, her arms and her legs, his hands passing deliberately over her ripe cunt.
‘Aren’t you going to fuck me?’ she gasped.
‘Goodness gracious me, Nicola. I thought you didn’t want to “make love” to anyone else but Fox.’ Johnny pronounced the phrase ‘make love’ as if he were describing some quaint but obscure medical procedure. ‘And here I’ve been, admiring your Clintonian logic all evening. Speaking of which,’ he said, unbuttoning his fly and placing his hand on the back of her neck, ‘why don’t you just make your lips comfortable around this?’
Johnny was marathon man, and Nicola thought it was a pity for his sake that sex hadn’t been an Olympic event. ‘Go for gold,’ shemurmured at one point, lifting her head, circling her fist weakly in the air.
‘Just keep sucking,’ he replied.
By the time Nicola left Johnny’s flat it was already late in the evening. Every one of her nerve endings tingled, her head was spinning and her jaw felt like she’d just spent three hours in the dentist’s chair. Johnny walked her down to find a cab. As they waited for a taxi, he pulled her towards him and brushed her forehead with his lips.
‘That was incredible, Johnny,’ she said.
‘I could see you were enjoying yourself,’ he smirked.
She sighed, mindful that ‘He Has Feelings Too!’ ‘But I’m afraid I can’t see you ever again. It’s best if you don’t call me.’ She treated him to a little smile that tried to be brave enough for both of them.
Johnny, who at that exact moment was thinking that it wasn’t too late to call Liz, prickled at her words. Johnny was every bit as
Ralph/FHM/Details/Loaded
as Nicola was
Cleo/Dolly/Cosmo/Elle.
He was no keener on commitment than on acquiring one of the fascinating testicular diseases regularly featured, with photos, in his favourite publications. On the other hand, he intensely disliked being told by a woman not to call. He was the one in control. That’s just how it had to be. ‘I’ll call if I feel like it,’ he challenged.
‘I’ve got a boyfriend. You know that. I don’t want to hurt him.’ She sniffled. ‘Or myself. You can’t just do what you like.’
‘Johnny does,’ he stated coolly, ‘what Johnny wants to do. Taxi!’
As her cab sped off in the direction of the Cross, Johnny returned to his flat in an unexpectedly bad mood. He performed his tasks like an automaton, washing the martini shaker and glasses and drying them with a soft cloth, holding them up to the light to check for smudges but not caring if he found any. Flicking on the light in the ‘dungeon’, he sloped across the room to the Chinese screen, ducked behind it and turned off the video camera that was mounted on a tripodbehind the elegantly described eye of the crane. Then he blew out the candles and proceeded to straighten up. Nicola’s last words still rankled more than they should have, and this puzzled and annoyed him.
As he was wiping down the black lounge, he noticed Nicola’s scarf on the floor. He picked it up and folded it, then put it to his nose. It smelled of her perfume, a subtle citrusy scent almost like grapefruit. It smelled of mornings and sunshine and youth.
Like a long-forgotten but once-favourite photograph, a picture unfolded in Johnny’s mind of the sharehouse he lived in when he did architecture at Sydney Uni twenty years earlier. It was a rundown terrace in Newtown, but he had thought it a palace at the time, occupying the front room with its wide verandah. He and Daria would sit out there in the morning before class, soaking up the sunshine, drinking gallons of tea, eating mandarins and enthusiastically discussing everything from the merits of Tom Wolfe’s
From Bauhaus to Our House
to the new multicultural broadcasts on
‘Aren’t you going to fuck me?’ she gasped.
‘Goodness gracious me, Nicola. I thought you didn’t want to “make love” to anyone else but Fox.’ Johnny pronounced the phrase ‘make love’ as if he were describing some quaint but obscure medical procedure. ‘And here I’ve been, admiring your Clintonian logic all evening. Speaking of which,’ he said, unbuttoning his fly and placing his hand on the back of her neck, ‘why don’t you just make your lips comfortable around this?’
Johnny was marathon man, and Nicola thought it was a pity for his sake that sex hadn’t been an Olympic event. ‘Go for gold,’ shemurmured at one point, lifting her head, circling her fist weakly in the air.
‘Just keep sucking,’ he replied.
By the time Nicola left Johnny’s flat it was already late in the evening. Every one of her nerve endings tingled, her head was spinning and her jaw felt like she’d just spent three hours in the dentist’s chair. Johnny walked her down to find a cab. As they waited for a taxi, he pulled her towards him and brushed her forehead with his lips.
‘That was incredible, Johnny,’ she said.
‘I could see you were enjoying yourself,’ he smirked.
She sighed, mindful that ‘He Has Feelings Too!’ ‘But I’m afraid I can’t see you ever again. It’s best if you don’t call me.’ She treated him to a little smile that tried to be brave enough for both of them.
Johnny, who at that exact moment was thinking that it wasn’t too late to call Liz, prickled at her words. Johnny was every bit as
Ralph/FHM/Details/Loaded
as Nicola was
Cleo/Dolly/Cosmo/Elle.
He was no keener on commitment than on acquiring one of the fascinating testicular diseases regularly featured, with photos, in his favourite publications. On the other hand, he intensely disliked being told by a woman not to call. He was the one in control. That’s just how it had to be. ‘I’ll call if I feel like it,’ he challenged.
‘I’ve got a boyfriend. You know that. I don’t want to hurt him.’ She sniffled. ‘Or myself. You can’t just do what you like.’
‘Johnny does,’ he stated coolly, ‘what Johnny wants to do. Taxi!’
As her cab sped off in the direction of the Cross, Johnny returned to his flat in an unexpectedly bad mood. He performed his tasks like an automaton, washing the martini shaker and glasses and drying them with a soft cloth, holding them up to the light to check for smudges but not caring if he found any. Flicking on the light in the ‘dungeon’, he sloped across the room to the Chinese screen, ducked behind it and turned off the video camera that was mounted on a tripodbehind the elegantly described eye of the crane. Then he blew out the candles and proceeded to straighten up. Nicola’s last words still rankled more than they should have, and this puzzled and annoyed him.
As he was wiping down the black lounge, he noticed Nicola’s scarf on the floor. He picked it up and folded it, then put it to his nose. It smelled of her perfume, a subtle citrusy scent almost like grapefruit. It smelled of mornings and sunshine and youth.
Like a long-forgotten but once-favourite photograph, a picture unfolded in Johnny’s mind of the sharehouse he lived in when he did architecture at Sydney Uni twenty years earlier. It was a rundown terrace in Newtown, but he had thought it a palace at the time, occupying the front room with its wide verandah. He and Daria would sit out there in the morning before class, soaking up the sunshine, drinking gallons of tea, eating mandarins and enthusiastically discussing everything from the merits of Tom Wolfe’s
From Bauhaus to Our House
to the new multicultural broadcasts on
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